


The Sign

by carpevinum



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4605282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpevinum/pseuds/carpevinum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re looking for the sign — any sign —  that you should’ve picked up on. A sign that maybe he was more than just the one night stand that never left, more than just a convenient fuck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign

You haven’t done this since you were younger. Much younger. 

When you were six, your father stumbled home one night after losing the entire month’s rent money in a game of poker and hit you for the first time. You fell to the ground, your cheek burning and pulsing. When you cried and didn’t stand up, your father grabbed you roughly by the arms and yelled at you for being such a baby.

The next morning, you stood on the tips of your toes in front of the bathroom mirror and saw that the side of your face was still red and puffy. You pulled up the sleeves of your t-shirt and found ugly, finger-shaped, purplish bruises one each side. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you wondered if there was something you did that led to this moment. You must've done something or said something that made your dad angry enough to hit you. 

You thought that if you could figure out what not to do, you could be a good boy, and then he wouldn’t do it again. 

But he did it again, and every time, your mind recounted every second of every memory, searching for that moment when everything started going wrong. 

Back then, you even used to believe that somewhere up in the clouds, God existed and watched out for all the little boys and girls in the world. So after being unable to come up with any answers despite thoroughly combing through all your memories, you prayed long and hard, asking God why Daddy hit you sometimes and why Mommy would be making your favorite layered chocolate cake one day and passed out drunk another. You prayed that you could turn back the clock and make it so that Daddy didn’t gamble and Mommy showed up to PTA meetings. You prayed that you could understand what you kept doing wrong that made your parents hate you.

And now you’re doing it again. Your mind is scanning through every moment that led up to this, hoping to find an answer. You’re looking for the sign — any sign — that you should’ve picked up on. A sign that maybe he was more than just the one night stand that never left, more than just a convenient fuck. That maybe you were actually falling in lo — No, you made it perfectly clear to him and everyone else that you don’t do _that_. You don’t believe in it. It wasn’t that despised four letter word, especially not now. So when exactly was it that indicated that everything was headed toward disaster? 

You think that it must have been early on. 

Maybe it was when he weaseled his way into Debbie’s house and waited for you. You ran up the stairs and instead of telling him to get the fuck out, let him get down on his knees and blow you, in front of all of Michael’s Captain Astro figurines. 

Maybe it was when he peeled off his shirt at Babylon and stole your tricks from right under your nose, and rather than taking them right back, took him home for the second time. You had been so insistent that you didn’t do repeats nor did you have to, yet there you were driving back to the loft, blond twink in tow. 

Maybe it was when you scoffed at his freshly pierced nipple at Woody’s but found yourself unable to unlatch your mouth from his chest. You couldn’t bare to see the smug look on the little motherfucker's face, so you flipped him over and fucked him from behind. You still pressed your chest against his back, needing to feel his body as it curved against yours in rhythm with your strokes, and somehow, your fingers ended up laced together with his.

Maybe it was that time you were particularly drunk and horny, and he was willing and eager (why was he always so fucking willing and eager?). He was playing pool — quite poorly, if you recall correctly — and you walked up behind him and leaned against him. He tried to shrug you off at first, but he quickly stopped once you pulled his body closer and grabbed his cock through his jeans. You rubbed your hand until he became hard. You should’ve gone home right then, maybe taking home the hot guy who had been cruising you all night. But instead, you dragged him to the bathroom of Woody’s and pushed him against the wall. You pinned him back, resting one arm across the top of his chest while the other rested near his head, your palm flat on the tiled wall. The two of you stood there, blinking and not speaking. 

His light blue eyes were dark with lust. Back then before he decided that he got you all figured out and could read you like a fucking book, he filled initial nervousness as he waited to see what you would do next. You felt him move under your arm, his body trying to turn around so that you can fuck him already. It annoyed you presumptuous he was, and how quickly he grew impatient.

You leaned against him with more of your weight, pressing on him a little firmer. With your free hand, you unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down his hips. He was about to say something that you probably didn’t want to hear, so you covered his mouth with your hand as you sank to your knees and began to run your tongue along the length of his cock. You teased him because you could, and definitely not because you enjoyed the way his body squirmed at your touch. 

You licked the head of his dick slowly before taking him whole in your moth. As he gasped and shuddered, it dawned upon you that anyone could walk in and see the Great Brian Kinney down on his knees, but in that moment, you didn’t care. All that mattered was getting him off. He came quickly, even faster than usual, and you swallowed the hot come that filled your mouth and waited for his orgasm to finish before you released him with a slick pop. As you stood up, he was leaning against the wall, his head cocked to one side. There was a bright, curious look in his eye, and he had opened his mouth again, probably about to say something obnoxious. So you pressed your forehead against his sweaty one and kissed him roughly to shut him up. You took him home and fucked him too.

So you liked fucking him, so what? And who said you needed an excuse to fuck him more than once? Sure it was annoying at first how he followed you around, but he was a great fuck. And hey, it wasn’t all that bad having him around. Mikey didn’t like him, but you found that funny, and Debbie and the munchers adored him. Emmett couldn't stop gushing how courageous he was and was delighted to have someone who would listen to all his stories. Even Ted had started to warm up to him. And now you think you’ve been searching through the wrong memories, because at some point it became about something more than sex, so maybe it happened when you weren’t fucking. 

Maybe it all started when he came running to your loft, scared and angry at his mother, and you tossed him a blanket and let him sleep on your couch. Hell, you even kicked out a potential fuck for him.

Maybe it was when his dad punched you in front of Babylon and even though you were pissed, you couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Again, you handed him a blanket and told him he could stay on the couch, but this time he sneaked in to your bed. And rather than telling him to fuck off, you merely pulled the comforter up and over his body. 

Maybe it was how you secretly didn’t mind driving him to school, even if he lectured you incessantly on the dangers of consuming too much caffeine and made you test him on his SAT vocabulary words. At first, he tried to kiss you goodbye, and when you told him to fuck off, he rolled his eyes and laughed in your face. He talked back like the teenage brat he is and on occasion made a witty remark that would put a smile on your face, even as you headed into the office. 

Or maybe it was that sunny Sunday afternoon, when you decided to teach him how to properly smoke. You sat close to him, and you showed him how to break up the weed and spread it evenly along the rolling papers. It wasn't long until he was more stoned than he'd ever been in his life and lay stretched out on the loft floor, babbling nonsense. You laughed like an idiot even though you weren't sure what was so funny, and when he smiled at you for laughing uncontrollably, you grinned at him until your cheeks began to hurt. Before, this was something you only did was Mikey, and now you did it with him.

Maybe it was when you starting making out, not as a prelude to fucking, but just because it was fun and an easy way to pass the time. You recall all those those lazy make-out sessions in the loft, outside Debbie’s after weekly dinners, and even in the diner, on display for all of Liberty Avenue’s finest. He got pretty good, knowing just how much tongue to use and how to gently suck and nibble your lower lip when he wanted to be playful. His lips were never chapped either, and you liked running your hands through his soft hair and pressing your nose against his neck. He always smelled clean and soapy and a little like you. 

Maybe it was none of the above, because the thought of you being so partial to him that early on is unsettling. You want to think that it was much later, like at prom. You’re not sure whether it was when you were dancing, those high schoolers be damned, or afterwards in the parking lot, where you continued to spin him around, the both of you singing like a pair of fools. Or maybe it was when you placed that white silk scarf around his neck and kissed him in a tender way you didn’t even know you could. Maybe it was when he turned his head around to look at you and smiled so brightly that it made your chest tighten and ache.

Or maybe it was when you heard the crack of wood hitting bone and hated how you couldn’t run to him fast enough or bring yourself to smash that fucker’s skull in. Maybe it was when you fell to the concrete and cradled his bleeding head — Christ, why had there been so much blood? — for a full minute before you reached your senses and called an ambulance. 

Maybe it’s now, because you can’t stop fucking thinking about him. You could get up right this second and walk away, but you can’t. When did you become this pathetic? Why did you show up at the stupid prom full of those adolescent breeders, and why does it feel like you let him down? You hate him. You hate him for falling in love with you and believing in you and trusting you to protect him. You hate that you hate him. Hate that you care. Hate that you hate him so much that it doesn’t feel even feel like hate anymore. 

You think that someone may have sat down next to you. Your entire body is numb though, so you can’t be sure. You think that maybe it might be Mikey, but that’s impossible, because he’s supposed to be on a plane to the dear, old Doctor. You think that your face might also be wet with tears, but you’re not a crier, especially not for eighteen year old twats who are stupidly brave and run their mouths and get their heads bashed in.

Maybe it had been even earlier, even before you fucked him. Maybe it had been when you, him, and Mikey ran through the halls of the hospital you’re in right now, weaving through the nurses and doctors, to get to Lindsay and Gus and Melanie and their entourage of lesbians. You barely knew him and you couldn’t even remember his fucking name, yet you were laughing and pushing each other around like old friends. 

You feel a hand touch your shoulder and you look up to see a police officer. Your mouth is dry and you can’t seem to comprehend what he’s saying, so you look past him. You see his mom, shaking on the ground, weeping and crying out for her son, her precious baby boy. You know she’s thinking the same thing, wondering how, when, and why everything went wrong. She looks up and sees you. Immediately, her body stills and she goes quiet, and a chill runs down your spine. Your eyes meet hers, so bright and blue and similar to that of her son’s, and you’re reminded of why you stopped doing this — the endless rehashing of past memories — all those years ago. 

You were eight, and you decided that there was no God, because what God would ignore you for this long. Prayer was dumb and pointless, just like believing you could pinpoint a moment in time that everything started going wrong. Your father would always be an abusive prick and your mother would always be a hypocrite who let her husband beat his own children. They would both always be drunks, horrible and mean. You couldn’t change these things or prevent them from happening again, so you stopped caring. You lived with no apologies, no regrets. And for a long time, it made you feel better.

And now, all these memories that wouldn’t stop replaying over and over in your mind dissolve away into nothing. All except one. It’s when you were at Babylon that one night and he was riled up about college. His anger amused you a little, so you bought him a beer and listened to him complain about his life, bitter and annoyed. What you wouldn’t give to be dancing with him at Babylon now, not be sitting in a hard plastic chair in a hospital waiting room — no, you have to stop yourself from falling back into the cycle. Remember who you are, for Christ’s sake. You remember your words to him, what you said before you tugged on his shirt and pulled him to the dance floor. 

Those words are truer now than ever, now that Justin is in surgery teetering on the edge of life and death. You want so badly to have been able to pick up on the warning signs, but you know better than anyone else that it’s a futile exercise. 

_It’s too late now; there’s no turning back._

**Author's Note:**

> Well I hope that wasn't too awful. Writing Brian is just so damn hard. I hope y'all enjoyed this even though it was quite repetitive and mostly a rehash of S1 (I'm a sucker for S1; sue me). Also I hope it made sense what was happening, because it my mind, it was a pretty obscure concept.
> 
> If you don't mind, please let me know how this whole 2nd person POV went. I want to write a long-ish fic in 2nd person POV, but I don't know if it would get boring too fast or whatnot.


End file.
